The Violets of March
by xLittleBabyTara
Summary: In a mystical place where violets bloom out of season and the air is salt drenched, Quinn Fabray stumbles upon a diary and steps into the life of its anonymous author.     Future!fic.   Full summary inside.  **STORY NOW ON HIATUS.**
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **The Violets of March

**Rating: **Pretty much all K, possible T in later chapters.

**Pairing[s]: **On the most part, Fuinn.

**Summary: **In her twenties, Quinn Fabray was on top of the world; she had a bestselling novel, a husband plucked from the pages of GQ, and a one-way ticket to happy ever after. Nearly a decade later, the tiding has turned on Quinn's good fortune. So when her sister Charlotte invites her to spend the month of March on Bainbridge Island in Washington State, Quinn accepts, longing to be healed by the seas. Researching her next book, Quinn discovers a red velvet diary, dated back to 1943, whose contents reveal startling connections to her own life.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Glee, any of the characters, nor do I own any part of the based-written book, 'The Violets of March'. Basically I'm writing based on the book, 'The Violets of March', but adding my own twists, quirks, and spins to it, plus including the Glee characters.

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><p>''I guess this is it, huh?'' Finn Hudson said, leaning out the door of our modern family meets antique looking condo. His eyes darted back and forth from furniture and now empty rooms as if he was almost trying to remember every detail of the New York two-story, the one we had purchased in late 2008. It was quite a sight for only a two-story; entryway with its almost gothic looking arch, the little antique painting we had purchased in Connecticut, and of course, the rich and fullness ways the living room and kitchen walls stood about with its floral painting. We had always been unenthusiastic about the paint color being almost bright firetruck red, so we later on had decided to finally paint it to a light pink and then of course overlay the floral designs amongst it. The red had been jarring and somewhat controlling, just like our marriage, so to speak.<p>

Our eyes connected and met for about half a second before I quickly yet discretely looked down at the book my mother had given me when I was a little girl. Appropriately titled, 'The Secret Garden', it was my go-to book. It had always been secret to me, something I could always bury into my heart. Whenever I was alone on the weekends since Finn had work for extended hours, I'd cradle my cat into a fuzzy and warm content blanket and would fall asleep to the book listening to the rain outside pitter patter outside my window. I swiftly prided down the hallway, quickly unboxing an already taped up box filled with my belongings, pulling out a portrait of our family; the cat, him, me of course, and our two daughters, Lucy and Lucinda.

''Did you take an extra copy of the portrait, Finn?'' I called out discretely burdening it under my winter coat, standing back up to my feet facing the taller man. I had the portrait taken many a years ago in hopes of traveling to every home we purchased, leaving this in the house's memory. Looking back from then to now, I'll never seem to forget the photographer's lusty smile when she had taken that picture. I remember a smell. Oh, it's coming back to me now, I remembered, smiling a bit. The rosy scent of.. lavenders.. filled her room. It was a perfect scenery for the portrait.

Finn watched contently as I handed him the 134 by 204 portrait carefully. When I handed it to him, I let out a sigh of emotional and mental unhappiness. ''Oh, I'm sorry'', he said awkwardly now handing it back to me, almost dropping it which had made me frown furiously at him and he had taken back the awkwardness, now wiping his forehead, ''I didn't realize you-''

He didn't realize a lot of things about me, including my affix to the portrait. I grasped the portrait forcefully, and inhaled deeply, letting it out once again, setting it back down onto the top of the box. ''I guess that's everything'', I said, now standing back up from the box.

He glanced around cautiously almost as if I was a murderer, and I returned his gaze this time, now raising both my eyebrows. For another few hours, at least until I signed the divorce papers late that evening, he'd still be my husband. Even if it was difficult and painful to look into those dark brown eyes knowing that the man I married was leaving me for the girl he fell in love with in high school, Rachel Berry. How did we even get her, I always ponder and probably always will, even after the divorce.

The scene of our demise now reminisced throughout my mind like a sad and disturbingly tragic movie, the way it had just a million times since we'd been apart. It opened on a snowy Friday morning in December. I was making my famous grilled cheese and cabbage soup, Finn's favorite dinnertime/lunchtime meal, when he came home just to tell me about Rachel. The way she made him laugh at everything. The way she made him just as good food. The way she always talked about OUR kids. Our. Kids. I shuddered awfully. It's funny; when I think back to that day, I can still remember the smell of the soup. Had I known that this is what the end of my marriage would smell like, I would have at least made mac and cheese for our kids, at least.

I looked back up to Finn's face again. His eyes were soft and tearful. I knew immediately that if I sprung to my feet and just threw myself at him, he'd embrace me with love and tender care. But, no, I strictly told myself. The damage'd been done. Our fate has been decided. With that, I extended a hand to Finn and shook his hand. My heart may have immediately wanted to linger, but my brain knew better than that. He needed to go. Finn looked wounded, ''Quinn, I-''Wait a second. Was he looking for forgiveness? A second chance? I don't know! Huh, I told myself quietly. ''Good-bye'', I said at last mustering all my strength.

He then nodded quietly back, and turned to the door with his belongings. I closed my eyes tightly and shuddered coldly as he shut the door behind him. He locked it from the outside, a gesture that made my heart seize. He still cares.. I thought. About my safety, at least. I shook my head sadly and reminded myself to get the locks changed, then listened closely as his footsteps became quieter and quieter, until they completely were swallowed up by the taxi cabs and New York city chatter street noise.

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><p>My phone rang sometime later that day, and when I stood up to get it, I realized I'd been sitting on the floor engrossed in 'The Secret Garden' once again, ever since Finn left. Had a minute passed? An hour? I wasn't sure. Answering my phone, a bright spiritual voice sounded about through the speaker. ''Are you coming?'' The voice said. It was Audrey, my best friend. ''You promised you wouldn't sign your divorce papers alone!''<p>

Disoriented, I looked sharply at the clock. ''Sorry, Audi'', I said, fumbling for my keys and my bag and then of course the dreaded manila envelope in my bag. I was supposed to meet her at the restaurant half an hour ago. ''I'm on my way'', I said. ''Good'', she replied. ''I'll order you a drink''.

The Calumet, our favorite lunch and dinner sport, was four to five blocks from my condo, and when I arrived ten minutes later after almost getting hit by a car on Pouncy Track Av., Audrey greeted me warmly with a hug. ''Are ya hungry?'' she asked after we sat down. I sighed disapprovingly, ''No''.

Audrey frowned. ''Carbs'', she said, passing me the bread basket. ''You need carbs. Now, where are those papers? Let's get this over with''.

I pulled out the envelope from my bag and set it on the table, staring at it with the sort of caution one might reserve for TNT or dynamite.

''You realize this is all your fault'', Audrey cackled, half smiling.

I gave her a dirty frozen look. ''What do you mean, my fault''.

''You don't _marry _men named Finn'', she continued with that tsk-tsk in her voice. ''Nobody marries Finns. You date Finns, you let them buy you drinks and pretty things from Tiffany, but you do not marry them'', she huffed.

Audrey was working on her PH.D in social anthropology. In her two years of research, she had analyzed marriage and divorce data in an unconventional way. According to her research, a marriage's success rate can be accurately precided by the man's name.

Marry an Eli and you're likely to enjoy wedded bliss for about 12.3 years. Brad? 6.4. Steves peter out after just four. And as far as Audrey was concerned, don't ever-ever-marry a Preston.

''So what does the data say about Finn again?'' I asked, chewing on an end piece of the basil scented bread.

''Seven point two years'', she said in a matteroffact tone.

I nodded briefly. We had been married for six years and two weeks.

''You need to find yourself a Trent'', she continued.

I made a displeased face, scrunching up my nose. ''I hate the name Trent!''

''OK. Then an Edward or a Bill, or-no, a Bruce''. She said. ''These are names with marital longevity''.

''Right'', I said sarcastically, ''Maybe you could take me husband shopping at a retirement home''.

Audrey is tall and thin and beautiful-Julia Roberts beautiful, with long way dark hair, porcelain skin, and intense dark eyes. At thirty-three she had never ever been married, surprisingly. It was too much to handle for her. Pft, I'd always say about that. Lies. Lies, lies, lies!

''Oh, ha. Oh, goodness. I have something from you! I mean.. for you'', Audrey said, handing me a green laced envelope.

''What?'' I asked, flipping it over. Audrey just tilted her head down, smiling.

I read the envelope.

_Quinn,_

_The island has a way of calling one back when it's time. Come home. I have missed you, dear._

_All my love,_

_Charlotte. _

I pressed the postcard to my chest and exhaled deeply, biting my bottom lip.

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><p><strong>AN: :o. My god xD. This was very fun to write and I hope it's not too long! I tried to make it not too long but at the same time I felt needed to at least take it to the letter part at the end. Chapter two won't be as long.**

**Reviews are always appreciated and welcomed! Thanks! P.S. - chapter two should be up tomorrow or the following day if I get a few reviews (:**


	2. Welcome to Seattle!

**Title: **The Violets of March

**Rating: **Pretty much all K, possible T in later chapters.

**Pairing[s]: **On the most part, Fuinn.

**Summary: **In her twenties, Quinn Fabray was on top of the world; she had a bestselling novel, a husband plucked from the pages of GQ, and a one-way ticket to happy ever after. Nearly a decade later, the tiding has turned on Quinn's good fortune. So when her sister Charlotte invites her to spend the month of March on Bainbridge Island in Washington State, Quinn accepts, longing to be healed by the seas. Researching her next book, Quinn discovers a red velvet diary, dated back to 1943, whose contents reveal startling connections to her own life.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Glee, any of the characters, nor do I own any part of the based-written book, 'The Violets of March'. Basically I'm writing based on the book, 'The Violets of March', but adding my own twists, quirks, and spins to it, plus including the Glee characters.

March 1st.

Bainbridge Island could never hide its glory, even under the cover of pure darkness. I watched from the window as the ferry loomed into Eagle Harbor, passing the island's pebble-covered shores and shake-singled homes that clung lovely to the hillside. Glowing orange interiors beckoned, as if the people inside were making one extra place as they gathered around the fireplaces to sip wine or hot chocolate.

Islanders reveled in being an electric bunch: Volvo-driving mothers whose executive husbands commuted to Seattle via ferry, reclusive artists and photographers, and a handful of celebrities. Rumor has it that Brad Bitt purchased nine acres on the west shore before Jennifer Aniston and him had split, and everybody knows that several former Gilligan's Island cast members call Bainbridge their home. Clearly, it's a good place to get lost. And that's what I was going to have to do.

From north to south, the island is just ten miles one, but it feels like going from Florida to Maine. There are bays and inlets, coves and mudflats, wineries, berry farms, a ton of llama farms, sixteen restaurants, a cafe that makes homemade cinnamon rolls and the best coffee I've ever tasted, and a market whose wares include locally produced rasp-berry wine and organic Swiss chard picked just hours before making its appearance in the produce section.

I took a deep inhale of salty fresh area air and looked at my face in the reflection of the window, and a tired, serious woman stared back. I cringed, remembering something that Finn said a few months back. We were getting ready to leave for church and he had said, ''Did you forget to put on makeup?''

Yes, I did have on make up, thankyouverymuch, but the hall mirror revealed male and plain skin. The high cheekbones that no one in my family had but me, the ones my mother said I must have gotten from the milkman, the cheekbones that everyone said were such an asset, just looked wrong. I looked wrong.

I stepped off the ferry onto the onramp that led to the terminal where Charlotte would be waiting for me in her green 1963 Volkswagen Beetle. The air smelled of fish, decaying clams, and pine trees, which was exactly the way it had smelled when I was ten.

''They should bottle it shouldn't they?'' a man behind me said.

He must have been at least ninety, wearing a brown corduroy suit. He resembled a professor, with his thick reading classes. I wasn't sure if he was speaking to me until he spoke again. ''The smell! They should bottle it'', he said. ''Yeah,'' I said, nodding. I knew what he meant. ''I haven't been here in ten years. Guess I forgot how much I missed it!''

''Oh, you're an out of towner?''

''Yup. I'm here for the month''.

''Well, welcome then', he said, tipping his grey plaided hat. ''Who are you here to see, or are you just making an adventure of it?''

''My sister Charlotte''.

His mouth opened wide. ''Charlotte Larson?''

I grinned a bit. As if there was any other Charlotte Larson on the island. Although, my name of Fabray wasn't my sister's last name. She got married and changed her name from Fabray to Larson. ''Yes, you know her?'' I asked.

''Of course. She's my neighbor''.

''You know,'' he continued, ''I thought you looked familiar when I first saw you, and I''

We both looked up when we heard the unmistakable popling and crackling sound of an engine. Charlotte drives too fast for her age- for any age, really. But you'd somehow expect a forty-two year old to fear the accelerator, if not respect it. Nope. Not Charlotte. She skidded to a stop, mere inches from our feet.

''Quinnie!'' Charlotte said as she barreled out of the car, warms flung wide. She was dressed in a long sundress, a feathered white and black feathered Derby hat, her famous black circled sunglasses, and her red velvet heels.

I felt a lump in my throat. No tears, just a.. lump.

''I was talking to your neighbor-'' I said, realizing I hadn't gotten his name.

''Henry'', he said, smiling at me, extending his hand.

I remembered the words on Charlotte's postcard. In a way, her definition of fate felt more like my failure, but her inanition was kind.

I looked around the living room and sighed. ''Finn would have liked it here'', I said. But I never could convince him to leave work to make the trip.. I sighed to myself.

''It's all a good thing'', she said.

''Why?''

''Because I don't think we would have gotten along''.

''You're probably right'', I smiled. Charlotte didn't have much patients for pretense, and Finn was wrapped in layers of it.

She stood up and walked around the corner to the room she called the lanai, where she kept a full wet bar. Space there was enclosed almost entirely by windows, aside from one wall where a large painting hung. I remembered the canvas I'd tucked into my suitcase before leaving New York. I wanted to ask her about it, but not yet. I learned long again that discussing Charlotte's art, like many subjects in her life, was off limits. Way off limits.

I thought of the night when I was fifteen, when my cousin Joey and I snuck into the lanai, flung our way to the cabinet and drank four shots of rum each while the adults played cards in the other room.

Charlotte returned with two Gordon Greens, a mixture of lime and cucumber muddle together with gin, some syrup, and a sprinkle of salt. ''So let's hear about you!'' She said, handing my glass to myself.

''I don't want to talk about it, Char. I just don't. It's hard''. I sighed, sipping the drink.

''I know, I know'', she said.

We sat there together in silence, staring at the fire's hypnotic flames until I felt my eyelids got heavy.


	3. Something In Bloom

**A/N: Hey, guys! Sorry for not updating, I've been busy with schoolwork and whatnot, but I'll hopefully write Chapter 4 in advanced. Thanks for the reviews, by the way! Much appreciated!**

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><p>I didn't bother changing my clothes or brushing my hair, preparations I would most certain have made in New York. Instead, I threw on a sweater, jammed my feet into a pair of army green boots that Charlotte kept in the bedroom, and made my way outside.<p>

There's something oddly therapeutic about trudging through sand, the feeling of squishiness below the feet telling you that it's okay to just let go. And that's what I did that morning. I didn't scold myself for it, and when my mind turned to Finn and a thousand little random memories from the past, in clouding his new two legged hobbit, I crushed a hollowed crab shell with my boot.

I then picked up a rock and threw it into the water as far as I could. _Dammit. Why did our story have to end like this? _Then I picked ip another and another, throwing them violently into the water. There was a small part of me that wanted him back and I hated myself for it.

''You're never going to skip a rock with a throw like that''.

I jumped at the sound of a man's voice. It was Henry, walking towards me.

''Oh, hi'', I said sheepishly. Had he been watching my tantrum? ''I was just''…

''Skipping rocks'', he said, nodding. ''But your technique, sweetheart-it's all wrong''.

He bent down and picked up a smooth oak and held it up to the light, scrutinizing every angle. ''Yes'', he said. ''This one will do'', he then turned to me. ''Now, hold the rock like this, and then let your arm flow''.

He threw it toward the shore and it flew, just barely touching the water line.

''I'm losing my touch, six is terrible''. He winced.

''It is?''

''Well, yeah. M record's fourteen''.

''Fourteen? You can't be serious''.

''As I live and stand here'', he said, crossing his heart. ''I was once the rock-skipping champion of this island!''

didn't feel like leaguing, but I couldn't help myself. ''They have competitions for rock skipping?''

''Yep. Now you try''.

I poked around and reached for a flat stone, winding up, then letting go. The rock hit the water and belly flopped. ''See? I'm horrid!''

''Nah, you just need practice''.

I smiled. His face was worn like an old leather bound book, but his eyes… they reminded me inside resided a young man.

''May I interest you in some coffee?'' He asked, pointing up the shore to a tiny white house.

''Yes! That sounds delightful'', I replied, smiling.

We then walked up the concrete steps that led to a moss covered pathway. Its stepping stones deposited us at Henry's entryway, under the shadow of two large old cedar trees standing sentry.

He opened the screen door. Its screech rivaled that of a few seagulls form the roof who squealed in disapproval as they flew over the water.

''Ive been meaning to get this door fixed'', he said, slipping off his boots on the porch. I followed his lead and did the same.

My cheeks warmed from the fire roaring wildly in the living room. ''Make yourself comfortable'', he said. ''I'll put the coffee on''.

I nodded and walked to the fireplace, with its dark mahogany mantel lined with seashells, small rocks, and sepia colored photos in fancy frames. One of the pictures caught my eye. Its subject wore her blonde hair curled and styled close to her head, the way women wore in the late 40s. She oozed glamour, like a model, standing there on the beach with the window blowing her dress against her body, her breasts outlined and her thin waist visible. There was a house pictured just like Henry's behind the lady. Her pose seemed to suggestive for a sister, then I immediately wondered if it was his wife.

''Your wife?'' I asked, sitting on the couch mesmerized by the picture.

''No'', he handed me a mug and then stood up, running his fingers along his chin.

''I'm sorry'', I said quickly, ''I didn't mean to pry''.

''No, no'', he suddenly smiled. ''It's silly, I guess. It's been more than forty years. She was my fiancee''. ''We were going to be married, but.. things didn't work'', he sighed, looking back at me.

We both looked up when a knock on the front door clashed.

''Henry?'' It was a man's voice. ''Are you home?''

''Oh, it's Jack'', Henry nodded, headed to the door.

I watched from the living room as he opened the door and a well-combed dark haired man about my age appeared. He was tall, he wore jeans and a gray wool sweater.

''Hi'', he said awkwardly, as his eyes met mine. ''I'm Jack''.

Harry spoke for me before I could open my mouth to let a single word fly out. ''This is Quinn.. you know, Charlotte Larson's sister''.

Jack looked at me and back at Henry. ''Char's _sister_?''

''Yes. She's visiting for the month!'' Henry half-smiled.

''Welcome'', Jack said, tugging at the cuff of his sweater. ''I didn't mean to interrupt; I started cooking and halfway I realized I was out of eggs. Happen to have a few, Hen?'' He chuckled.

''Of course'', Henry cackled, headed to the kitchen.

While Henry was gone, my eyes met Jack's but I quickly looked away. He itched his scalp; I fiddled with the zipper on my sweater. The silence was as thick and stifling as the murky sand outside the window.

A splash sounded in the water outside. I startled, catching my food, hopeless watching the little white vase sitting atop a stack of books topple to the ground, where it broke to four jagged pieces.

''Oh no.'' I said, shaking my head.

''Here, I'll help you hide the evidence'', Jack smiled. I liked him instantly.

''I'm the world's clumsiest woman'', I said, burying my fee in my hands.

''Good'', he chuckled. ''I'm the world's clumsiest man'', he smiled again, pulling a plastic bag out of his pocket, carefully picking up was left of the vase. ''We can glue it together leader'', he suggested.

I grinned.

Henry then returned with an egg carton and handed it to Jack.

''Thanks, Hen. I owe you''. Jack said.

''Won't you stay?''

''I can't'', he said glancing my way. ''I really should get back, but thanks''. He turned my way, ''Nice to meet you, Quinn''.

''Nice to meet you'', I said, wishing he didn't have to go so quickly.

Henry and I watched from the window as Jack made his way back to the shore.

Nodding to Henry, I walked upstairs to my bedroom and curled up in the big bed with its pin ruffled conformer. I picked up the novel I'd bought at the airport, but I instead tossed the book back on the floor.

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><p>I let my wrist flop around without any energy and noticed something in the shadows next to me. It was a journal, a diary of some sort. I picked it up and ran my hand along the spine. It was old, and its intriguing red velvet cover looked worn and threadbare. I touched it, instantly feeling a pang of guilt. What if this was an old diary of Char's. I shuddered, setting it back down. A few moments passed and I found myself all in my hands again. It was too irresistible. Just one look at the first page, I told myself.<p>

The pages, yellowed and brittle, had a pristine feel that can only be cultivated by the passage of time. I scanned the first page for a clue, and found in the bottom right cover, where the words, Manualscript Exercise Book were typed in black ink, along with standard publisher's jargon. I recalled a book I'd read long ago in which a character from the early 20s used a notebook to write a novel. Just one more page, I said, then I'll put it back.

The words on the next page, written in the most beautiful penmanship I'd ever seen, sent my heart racing. ''The story of what happened in a small island town in 1943''.

What would be the hard in reading a few lines? When I took int he beginning paragraph, I could no longer resist.

_I never intended on kissing Elliot. Married women don't behave like that, at least not married women like me. It wasn't proper. But the tide was high, there was a cold breeze, Elliot's arms were draped around my body like a warm shawl, caressing me in places where he shouldn't had been, and I could scarcely think of much else. It was how we used to be. And even though I was married now, even though circumstances had changed, my heart had managed to stay fined in time- frozen, as if waiting for this very moment.. the moment in which Elliot and I found our way back to this place. Bobby never held me like this. Maybe he did.. but his touch didn't provoke this kind of passion, this kind of fire._

_And yes, I never intended on kissing Elliot. But this was the chain of events that began in the month of March on 1943. My name is Esther, and this is my story._

I looked up. Esther? Is that a pen name or is that someone real? I then heard a knock and pulled the covers up to hide the pages I read..

''Yes?'' I asked, warily. Charlotte opened the door.

''I can't sleep'', she said. ''How about we make a trip to the supermarket?''

''Sure''. I said, even though I wanted to read these juicy pages of important information.

''I'll meet you out front''. Charlotte said, staring at me. Somehow she sensed something. Nonetheless, she skidded out the door.

I started to get the feeling that people on the island were all in either some whacked out conspiracy, or they were all in on a huge secret.. the one nobody intended on sharing with me. At least not yet. Not.. yet..


	4. Quinn, Meet Evelyn and Greg

The Town and Country Market was luckily only half a mile from Charlotte's home. I used to walk there as a girl, with my sister or cousins, or sometimes just by myself, picking up purple clover flowers along the way until I had big round bunch of them. When they pressed to my nose, they'd smell like honey. Before the walk, I'd always beg the adults for twenty-five cents worth of quarters and I'd return with Bazooka bubble gum. If summer had a flavor, it was pink bubble-gum for sure.

Charlotte and I drove in silence along the winding road into town. The beauty of an old Volkswagen is that if you don't feel like talking, you don't have to. The engine noise infuses uneasy stillness with a nice, comforting hum.

Charlotte then handed me her shopping list.

''I have to go talk to Leanne in the bakery. Could you get started on this, dear?''

''Sure'', I smiled. I knew I could find my way around, even if I was seventeen last time I'd step foot in the place.

The Otter Pops were probably still on aisle three, and, of course, the cute guy in the produce department would be there, sleeves rolled up,showing off biceps.

I scanned Char's list: salmon, arborio rice, leeks, watercress, shallots, white wine, rhubarb, whipping cream; which hinted the dinner would be drool-worthy. I started on wine, since it was closest.

The Town and Country Market's wine department looked more like the cellar of an upscale restaurant than the limited selection typical of a regular grocery store.

''Can I help you?''

I looked up, a little scared, and noticed a man about my age walking toward me. I backed up and almost knocked over some wine near me. ''Oh gosh, sorry''. I said.

''No worries'', he smiled. ''You are you looking for a california white, or maybe something local?''

There were few lights in the room so I couldn't make out his face. I then looked up and gasped. ''Is that you, Greg?''

He looked over at me in disbelief. ''Quinn?''

The last time I'd seen him, his face was familiar as it had been the day I let him remove my bikini and run his hands along my chest. It was surely that he loved me and we'd get married one day. I was sure of it. In fact, I scratched ''Quinn and Greg = Love'' with a paper clip on the back of the paper towel dispenser in the women's restroom at the market. But the as the summer ended, I went home. He never called. Or emailed. His younger sister informed me he left for college and had a new girlfriend. Her name was Lisa.

Greg was still incredibly handsome, but he was older now. He didn't have a wedding ring on his finger which was a tad hilarious to me.

''What are you doing here?'' I asked. It still didn't hit me that this was his place of employment. I'd always imagined Greg as a forest ranger or air pilot. Something bolder, something bigger.

''I work here!'' he smiled, grinning. ''It's been like, what?'' He asked, nodding up, itching his cali-blond beach hair.

''Fourteen years'', I sighed smiling a bit.

''Maybe even longer! That's crazy'', he chuckled.

''You look great'', he said before I said anything further.

''Thanks'', I replied tugging at my collar. I looked down at my feet.

Oh God. Oh, my God. Rubber boots. Oops!

''What're you doing here?'' he asked with emphasis on the 'you'.

''I'm visiting Charlotte for the month!'' I replied, grinning ear to ear.

''How come?'' He asked a bit startled.

''Well..'' I started, pointing to my ring finger which once had a diamond ring placed there.

Greg looked startled. ''I.. I'm sorry!''

''It's okay. I think it's all okay, only bec..'' I started, but got poked on my shoulder by Charlotte. Shit. Bad timing.

''There you are'', she said, waving at me. ''Come here, I want to introduce you to someone''.

Getting pulled away, I nodded once at Greg and he nodded back a bit disappointed.

Standing next a few steps down to her was a woman, about Char's age, with dark hair, obviously dyed, and I'd never seen eyes that dark.

''This is Evelyn'', Charlotte grinned. ''One of my dear friends''.

''It's so nice to meet you'', I said.

''Evelyn and I go way back. We've been friends since grade school. You actually met her as a child, but you may not remember.''

I thought back. I do remember Evelyn!

''I do remember you!'' I said suddenly. The glint of her eyes and the light of her smile instantly transported me back to 1985, the summer when Danielle and I stayed with Char on our own. We had been told our parents withered away on a trip, but later I learned they had separated. Dad left Mom in July, and by September, they'd patched things up. Mom lost fifteen pounds and Dad had grown a beard. They seemed awkward and strange around each other.

''I'd love to stay and talk but Char and I have a ceremony to go to. Oh, would you like to come? We'd love another house guest!'' Evelyn spoke about, smiling gracefully.

''I'd love to!'' I smiled.

''Great. Come by at 6 o'clock on the dot, dear''. Evelyn smiled, walking away.

Charlotte looked over me grinning ear to ear, tapping my shoulder.

''You know my old boyfriend, Greg?'' I asked, tapping her back playfully.

She nodded, ''Yes?''

''I think he asked me out''.

Charlotte just smiled in pure happiness.

Maybe this time I could.. find someone other than Finn. Maybe when I went back he would just have gotten married to someone else. Time can only tell, I told myself. I never knew what could happen. And that day forward, tonight would be my night to showcase my real self.

Quinn Fabray is going to that ceremony, I strictly told myself.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hello, readers! I'm so glad this story has been much enjoyed by the viewers. I appreciate it! **

**Two things;**

**1). I know a lot of viewers want Finn and Quinn to get back together, but for now, I can't tell which way I want Quinn to go. So, you guys have to wait, unfortunately! Sorry! :)**

**2). Apologizes with this chapter being short. I do promise the next chapter will be much longer. Me being a homeschooler, it makes it much easier for me to update stories and create new ones. I just need a lot of ideas, haha. **

**Anyways, keep reviewing. It's much appreciated! x**


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